


Angels With Dirty Faces

by tabaqui



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, M/M, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean are hunting a <i>loup-garou</i>.  So are Spike and Xander.  Vampires, magic, drinking, sexy cars!  Originally posted in February of 2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels With Dirty Faces

**Author's Note:**

> I started this right at the beginning of season two of Supernatural - didn't actually finish it for a couple seasons.
> 
> Title is from the movie of the same name. Spike serenades everyone with _Pretty Vacant_ by the Sex Pistols.

 

They were five hundred miles past Flagstaff, and highway 54 was a river of endless black. Sugar stars were dusted over a navy-satin sky and distant mesas bulked across the horizon. The radio was turned down low, some station out of Mexico tuning in and out. Static and the throbbing strum of a guitar, echo and fade. No other sound except for the cooling ticks of the car's engine and the ringing call of nighthawks, sieving the air for insects.  
  
Dean attempted to fluff the wad of flannel shirt he was using for a pillow, but it resisted. _Damn all poltergeists and the snotty little brats that attract them,_ he thought, yawning and then wincing as his bruised jaw twinged. _Damn 'em all to hell. Hell, yeah..._ Dean snorted in amusement and there was a slithering sound from the back seat as Sam shifted.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothin'," Dean said and twisted a little, wincing again as his strained shoulder sent an arrow of pain through him. " _Ow_ , damnit!"  
  
"Did you take anything?"  
  
"Yeah, I took three."  
  
"Good thing we stopped, then." Sam shifted again and Dean grimaced in sympathy as he heard Sam's knee crack into the door.  
  
"Don't hurt my car, Sam."  
  
"Your car _sucks_ for sleeping, Dean."  
  
"Hey!" Dean lifted his head and glared into the back seat, where Sam was a dark, humped shape in the frail starlight. "It's not _her_ fault your legs are so freakishly long."  
  
"Her? _Her_? It's just a -"  
  
"Don't dis the ride, Sammy boy." Dean settled back, arms crossed, chin sinking down to his chest. Everything ached and he was sure he wouldn't sleep until the pills kicked in. But until then, the desert air was sweet and crisp, the random pipings of insects and animals soothing. Dean closed his eyes, pulling the five-dollars-at-Stuckey's fake Navajo blanket higher. He was asleep in five minutes.  
  
  
  
"Hey, Sam, wake up!" Dean poked at Sam's neck with a Slim Jim, snickering when Sam bolted awake, batting at the tickling plastic.  
  
"Jesus!" Sam rubbed his neck – dragged his hand up over his face and back through his hair, looking blearily around. "What the hell?"  
  
"Motel. I'm gonna check us in." Dean turned the car off and Sam slumped down again, shooting him a look.  
  
"You didn't have to wake me up for _that_."  
  
"Dude, you were drooling on the leather." Dean squinted out through the wash of rain on the windshield, grinning as Sam surreptitiously checked for drool. He got out of the car and walked fast to the office, scooting in under a leaky gutter and cursing as rivulets of cold water got in past his collar and trickled down the back of his neck. The Indian woman behind the counter watched him wipe his feet and nodded approvingly. Her sari was blindingly pink with dark pink edges and it made Dean want to squint. _Have her eating out of my hand in a minute,_ Dean thought, and turned on the charm.  
  
Their room was around the back, facing a steeply sloping wooded hill. They were on the second floor and Sam left the door open – pushed the window open, too, letting the cool, wet air puff out the staleness. It was mild, for November. Dean bounced on one bed and then the other and piled all their gear on the one furthest from the door.  
  
"It's got a wicked sag," he told Sam, but Sam just nodded, already distracted. Hunting around for an outlet so they could charge up the laptop and the phones, pushing his wet hair back off his face. Dean just sat and watched him – handed over his phone and then bent to unlace his boots. He flopped back on the bed and heeled them off – pulled his socks off in the 'squish the toe and pull foot out' method he'd perfected as a kid. Then he carefully stretched, feeling the lingering soreness in his left shoulder, hip and knee. Getting tossed into a wall was never fun.  
  
"You don't wanna go eat?" Sam asked, dropping his jacket onto a chair.  
  
"Nah – we can order pizza or something."  
  
"Oh, yeah, _pizza_." Sam wandered over and shut the door, then sat down next to Dean. He got his own sneakers and socks off and then his hoodie – leaned back on one elbow, this little smile on his face. The smile he wore when they were alone, familiar and mostly just for Dean. The rain hissed softly outside, the whole world grey-green-gold, the sun still a couple hours from setting somewhere behind the clouds. "Don't you ever get sick of pizza?"  
  
"Nah. Can't have too much cheese and grease."  
  
"That's what _you_ think. One of these days you're gonna go face-first in the dirt with a heart attack, right in the middle of a hunt."  
  
"You're just Mr. Sunshine, aren't you?"  
  
"Fact of life, man. All that cholesterol –"  
  
"Oh, just shut up," Dean said. He pushed himself up and over, knocking Sam flat and then squashing him a little, chest to chest and Dean's thigh over Sam's. Dean threaded his fingers up through Sam's hair and knocked his head back into the mattress a couple of times. "Repeat after me: pizza-is-good-for-you."  
  
"Pizza-will-kill-you," Sam chanted, grinning – hands fisted in the shoulders of Dean's shirt. Dean just had to wipe that grin _off_ Sam's face. So he did, lips and tongue and teeth right there on Sam's. When he finally pulled back for a breath, the grin was gone.  
  
 _Works every time,_ Dean gloated, and dove back in.  
  
In the morning they drove out of Jefferson City along highway 50, the dome of the Capitol building glinting in the washed-soft light. It only hurt a little, being there.  
  
It rained all across Illinois and Indiana and they spent an extra day near the Little Wabash River, double and triple-washing mud out of everything thanks to a water nixie. Nixies were rare, tenacious and _mean_. Sam sported a nasty black eye for days and Dean had scuffs on both knees from being dragged through sharp gravel. But the drownings stopped.  
  
Somewhere around the Hoosier National Forest they pulled over for new windshield wipers and sandwiches so thick you had to squish them before you could fit them in your mouth. After, Dean flipped through a _Car & Driver_ magazine while Sam perused the trail-mix selection. They walked out with a bag full of M&M's and licorice and jelly beans. Of course, Sam immediately started picking out the orange beans.  
  
"If green ones make you horny, what do the orange ones do?" Dean asked.  
  
"That only works with M&M's." Sam unfolded a map and squinted down at it and Dean opened up the M&M's with his teeth, searching for green. "You're such a perv," Sam said, but his voice made it a caress.  
  
  
  
They were about to call it quits for the night outside a bar in Ashtabula, Ohio when they heard the _crack_ of breaking wood. A moment later there was a muffled shout back behind the rambling wooden structure. Dean looked over at Sam and grinned a little, bouncing on the balls of his feet with pent-up energy. The sudden rush of adrenaline was like tingling heat all through him. Sam shoved the laptop bag into the back seat with a resigned sort of noise.  
  
"Dude – somebody could be in trouble," Dean said, and Sam rolled his eyes.  
  
"Yeah, somebody could..." Sam looked around – jerked a length of board off a warped pallet that was leaning next a dumpster, hefting it thoughtfully. "Or – maybe you're just bored."  
  
"Well – _yeah_. You wouldn't let me blow you in the bathroom."  
  
Sam turned an incredulous face toward Dean. "Dude, that's disgusting. I don't wanna have sex in a public _toilet_."  
  
The look of horror on Sam's face made Dean laugh. "Picky, picky. Skin washes."  
  
"Hepatitis doesn't," Sam muttered, and Dean laughed again. He touched his fingertips to the knife at his waist and they ghosted silently down the alley. There was a single, dim bulb high up behind a wire guard over the loading bay and they stuck to the shadows, Sam a half step behind and to the left.  
  
Two guys were standing in a mostly-clear space, back to back; taller dark-haired guy and shorter blond guy. Surrounded by four other guys and one girl, all of them crouched and circling and _predatory_ in a way that made the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand up.  
  
"You're gonna be fucking sorry, man," one of the stalkers said, flexing hands at least as big as Sam's. "This is _our_ city. We're gonna carve you up and feed you to the dogs."  
  
"Always talking the bloody talk, aren't you?" the blond guy said, TV-English accent, grinning a nasty and fearless grin and, for a moment, Dean thought he might actually have a chance. Then the dark-haired guy turned his head, showing a patch over his left eye and Dean couldn't suppress his groan of frustration. Half-blind, in this dark alley? Against that many? Guy didn't stand a chance. The blond guy looked up – seemed to look right _at_ Dean for one second and then he looked away again, still grinning.  
  
" _Sam_ ," Dean whispered. Gesturing out to his left and fading right, crouching down. Advancing in small steps, doing his best to avoid the scattered trash, broken glass and teetering piles of cardboard boxes that crowded the space. Sam was doing the same, nearly invisible in the gloom despite his size.  
  
"How about you walk the bloody walk, you wanker," blond guy said. He lifted his chin, dismissive, and the guy with the patch made a kind of 'come on' gesture. He was grinning too.  
  
 _These guys are fucking nuts,_ Dean thought. But – a fight was a fight, and Dean _was_ bored. And nothing got him hotter faster than a good tussle. Just ask Sam.  
  
Mouthy guy snarled – and kept snarling – and Dean felt a nauseating little rush of icy cold all through his gut as the guy's face _changed_. Moved and morphed and took on a strange, low-browed sort of look. Leonine, with glittering golden eyes and _fangs_ , for fuck's sake. Dean heard Sam make a tiny noise of total shock and then the – _thing_ – launched itself right at the blond and one of the other things aimed a punch at patch-guy's head.  
  
 _Jesus – Christ... what the fuck...?_ "Sam –"  
  
"What have we here? Latecomers to the party," someone said, and Dean spun around to see two more things dropping down from the roof of the bar. Dropping light and easy, making a joke of the fifteen feet between roof and alley floor. A guy and another girl, eyes flaring up candle-gold in the pale light.  
  
"Fuck...me," Sam muttered, and the girl-thing gave him a _look_. One Dean totally recognized.  
  
"That an invitation, daddy long-legs? Bet you're good."  
  
"Oh, for fuck's sake." Dean pulled his knife out and took a step toward Sam, closing the gap between them. "Lay off with the pseudo-sexy talk, okay? You bad guys are all alike."  
  
"' _Pseudo_ sexy'? Sam muttered, little half smile lifting the corner of his mouth.  
  
"Word-A-Day dot com," Dean muttered back, grinning.  
  
The guy – thing – facing them made an annoyed sort of noise, like a cat being stepped on. "Bite me, human," he snarled and then he was piling into Dean like a fucking freight train, fists connecting hard and those fangs way, _way_ too close. And Dean was ducking and blocking and falling back because these things were _strong_ and Dean's knife to the hilt in its chest didn't do fuck all but make it roar like a pissed-off lion. Dean's head was already ringing from the solid, crunching blows and that really didn't help. Plus there was blood dripping into his eye. It felt warm.  
  
Sam was dodging – weaving – getting in hits with the two-by but not hard enough to knock the girl-thing out. Taking a couple of high kicks right into his ribs and wheezing. Girl-thing dodged a blow and the end of the two-by shattered against a wall, old wood splitting jaggedly. They were herded step by step down the alley, Sam crowding into Dean and Dean crowding into Sam, and all of a sudden the blond guy was there. He pushed between them – dodged a startled swing of the two-by and snatched it out of Sam's hands.  
  
"How about I just finish up here, yeah?" he said, and lunged at the girl-thing. The pale, pointy end of the two-by punched right into her chest and she screamed and then...  
  
"What the fuck?" Dean said, feeling slightly fuzzy in the head. A hand twisted into his collar and jerked him backwards. Patch-guy.  
  
"Would you believe it's all done with mirrors?" patch-guy asked.  
  
"Not on your fucking life," Sam said, panting. Staring at the little swirly pile of ash or dust or whatever it was the girl-thing had crumbled into.  
  
"You bastards!" the other thing yelled, advancing. _Growling_ like something out of Wild-fucking-Kingdom. The blond guy feinted right and then left and then buried the two-by in the guy-thing and he exploded, too.  
  
"Bloody amateurs," blond guy said, and Dean didn't know if he meant the things, or him and Sam.  
  
"Sammy, you okay?"  
  
"Just got the wind kicked out of me," Sam said, pressing his hand to his side with a wince that said it was a little more than that. "You okay? You're bleeding." Sam reached for Dean's face, fingers going up to his left eye.  
  
"Just a flesh wound," patch-guy said and the other guy snorted.  
  
He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up, puffing smoke into the chill air. "Best get that cleaned up before something comes sniffing. In fact – why not just bugger off altogether?"  
  
"Hey, we came back here to _help_ you," Sam snapped. Dean blotted his face on the tail of his shirt, the fuzziness sharpening rapidly as adrenalin did its thing.  
  
"And look how well _that_ turned out." The cigarette-end flared and smoke puffed out, blue-grey. "Don't you lot know better than to go running into dark alleys?"  
  
"Listen up, blondie –" Dean stepped right up into blond guy's face but patch-guy was just as fast – just as close, his hand on Dean's chest, lightly touching. He had a bruise on his jaw.  
  
"Okay – quit. Listen, just – thanks for trying to help, but there's stuff going on that you guys –"  
  
"Were they demons?" Sam asked, and blond guy looked sharply up at him. Patch-guy sighed. "Well, were they? They weren't ghosts, obviously. Or any kind of spiritual manifestation because they left – stuff behind. Shapeshifters maybe? I've never seen –"  
  
"All right, you've made your point." Blond guy took a step or two back, drawing on his cigarette and looking over at patch-guy, who shrugged. "Right. Okay. They were vampires; we dusted 'em – end of story. Stay out of dark places and don't invite strangers into your house."  
  
" _Vampires_? No way." Dean didn't miss the eye-roll from blond guy. "We've _seen_ vampires and those guys were nothing like the vamps we took out."  
  
"How were they different?" Patch-guy looked interested – maybe even worried.  
  
Dean wiped at his eye again, wincing a little at the sting of it. "They looked human. When they attacked, another set of teeth descended over the human ones. The only thing that killed them was –"  
  
"Beheading. Yeah. _Those_ guys." Blondie sighed and shot a look at patch-guy. "Remember? By-blows of the Lilu – descendants of Lilith."  
  
"Wait – _Lilith_?" Sam looked pole-axed. "You mean...?"  
  
"First wife of Adam, goddess of the night, all that, yeah." Blond-guy waved his hand dismissively. "They're... _sort of_ vampires." His mouth curled in something like a snarl. "Bunch of inbred bastards."  
  
Dean felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. _No way. No way there's more than one kind of vampire. Jesus – Dad didn't even know... Where the hell are all these vamps hiding? Why don't we **know**?_  
  
Blondie took a last pull off his cigarette and flicked the butt away into the darkness. "Listen, we've got things to do, evil creatures of the night to kill. Why don't you two run along home –"  
  
"We don't _live_ here," Dean snapped, and blondie's eyebrow went up. "We were checking out a possible...a..." Sam's expression was saying ' _no, dude, don't go there!_ ' but Dean didn't care. "A _loup-garou_."  
  
" _Dean._ "  
  
"What's a _loup-garou_?" Patch-guy asked.  
  
"Sort of a werewolf," Blondie said, "only not. More of a curse, like." Blondie gave Dean an appraising stare. "You can break the curse."  
  
"Yeah, we know. Did it once before." Sam didn't look happy, his hand still pressed hard to his ribs.  
  
Dean frowned. "I've _never_ seen anything like –" he waved his hand at the drifts of dust on the alley floor. "Like that. Nobody I know has."  
  
"You haven't been living in the right cities," patch-guy muttered, smiling a little.  
  
"Tell me –"  
  
"We don't have the time. And I don't have the bloody patience." Blondie lit up again, smoking hard. "Wood through the heart kills 'em, so does fire or taking their heads off. Or sunlight, if you can get 'em out into it. That's all you need to know." He turned a sudden grin on patch-guy, who looked back, expectation on his face. "There's a pint callin' my name, Xander – let's not disappoint."  
  
"How about let's not get drunk and brag about how many times you can get it up in a night?" patch-guy muttered. _Xander_.  
  
"Why? Makes the punters jealous." Blondie snagged Xander's sleeve and tugged and Xander went, turning around half way up the alley.  
  
"You guys be careful, okay? Don't invite strangers in – vampires can't come inside unless you invite them."  
  
"Unless you're in a motel," Blondie added, smirking, and then they turned the corner and disappeared.  
  
Dean looked over at Sam, who was sagging against the wall a little, wide-eyed. "You okay really?"  
  
Sam nodded – straightened up. "Yeah, I'm good. Do you – believe them?"  
  
They started back toward the car and Dean shrugged, scuffling his feet through the little patches of fine, sparkling dust. He was starting to feel cold as the adrenaline wore off. "Well, why not? We saw those... things. Vampires. Saw their faces and –"  
  
"Saw that guy turn 'em into dust."  
  
"Yeah. So – why not? Not like we haven't seen –"  
  
"Crazier things," Sam finished for him. "Yeah." Sam paused at the corner, glancing up at the buzzing neon bar sign. "Wanna get a beer?"  
  
"Rather just stop and grab a six-pack," Dean said. "Check out your manly bruises."  
  
"At least I didn't bleed like a stuck pig," Sam said, poking him with an elbow. Dean poked back, but gently.  
  
  
  
The noise didn't wake Dean. Not really. Bass-heavy music turned way up and the rumbling engine of something old and powerful was the soundtrack of Dean's life. He barely surfaced – just shifted a little, twisting in the bed enough to feel Sam's thigh with his knee. Then he sank back down.  
  
A minute later, though, he _was_ awake, heart pounding. He jerked upright in the bed, his hand closing around the knife-hilt under his pillow. Because something had just slammed into their door, hard. _What the fuck –?_ The bed juddered as Sam moved, too – as he lifted his gun from the nightstand, silent. The knob rattled and there were voices. _Loud_ voices.  
  
 _"No, no...no. You hafta – hafta use the...key. **Key**."  
  
"I don't have the bloody key!"_  
  
"I recognize that voice," Sam hissed and Dean did too.  
  
"No fuckin' way," Dean muttered and then he was off the bed and at the door. Sam was right behind him, gun up and ready, his hair a rat's nest and the bruising on his ribs dark and ugly in the dim light that was coming in around the curtains. He nodded and Dean reached out – undid the lock and yanked the door open fast.  
  
Xander all but fell into the room, Blondie attached to him like a leather-covered limpet. Dean shoved them both into the jamb, his fist in the lapel of Blondie's coat. The sky was a deep navy, the horizon a faint, frail green, the sun still a half hour below the horizon. The air that spilled over the sill of the door was wet and _cold_ , patchy with mist.  
  
"What the _fuck_ –?"  
  
"Bloody hell! Get off me, wanker." Blondie jerked away from Dean but he didn't have anywhere to go, really, since he was plastered pretty solidly to Xander. "Oh – s' _you_ two." Blondie gave Dean a look Dean really couldn't interpret. It made him feel – exposed.  
  
"Whoa, hey! Hi!" Xander made an ineffectual attempt to get Blondie off him, but Blondie seemed to be resisting. Resisting and getting kinda...grabby. "Um...why are you in our room?" Xander asked, squinting at Dean.  
  
"This is _our_ room," Dean said. He looked down at where Blondie's hands were – at the predatory and not- _nearly_ -that-drunk glitter in Blondie's eyes. "You guys really need to get your _own_ room. Like – now."  
  
"You said number nine, Spike," Xander muttered, looking confused. "Aren't we in number nine? Hey, hands!"  
  
 _Spike? Who the hell is named Spike?_  
  
Spike made a show of thinking about it. "I don't have a bloody clue, love. You got us the room – I was just makin' a guess. Only ten rooms to choose from."  
  
"And you chose the wrong one," Sam said, stepping around Dean, the gun held down and out. No threat, but a clear warning.  
  
"Hey – you guys are naked," Xander said, and it took Dean _way_ too long to process that. It took Sam a lot _less_ time because he immediately scuttled back behind Dean.  
  
 _Oh for fuck's sake. No wonder he was giving me that...look. Jesus._ "Yeah, we're naked, uh...so what?"  
  
Spike's mouth twisted up into an impossibly _suggestive_ smirk and Dean braced himself to give a naked ass-kicking. " _Sooo_ –" Spike drawled, but Sam interrupted him.  
  
"Just go breathe fumes on somebody else, okay?" Sam snapped, stretching over Dean to grab the edge of the door and slam it shut. Spike jerked Xander back just in time, chuckling. They heard Xander saying something in a confused voice and Spike saying something back and then – Spike started singing. The same song that had been pounding across the parking lot.  
  
 _"Oh we're so pretty...Oh so pretty...we're vacant...Oh we're so pretty...Oh so pretty vaaaay... **cunt**!"_  
  
Dean heard Sam huff out a long, annoyed breath behind him. "We just flashed the parking lot, Dean."  
  
"It's dark outside, Sam. Nobody noticed." _Just two drunk guys. No, correction. One drunk guy and one really horny guy._  
  
There was a thump – the slam of a door and then another thump. On the wall directly behind the beds.  
  
"Oh, _don't_ tell me –"  
  
Sam groaned, crawling under the covers and winding himself up in sheet and blankets like a mummy. Dean flopped down beside him, wrestling for his share and curling close. His feet were freezing.  
  
"They've got the fucking room next door," Sam muttered, and Dean flicked Sam's ear.  
  
" _Ow_!"  
  
"Hello, Captain Obvious." Dean flashed on Spike's grabby-hands. "Please tell me they're not gonna –"  
  
There was a third thump and the squeak of springs and then... _Thump thump thump_ , with a rising chorus of accompanying moans. And talking. Loud talking in that English accent.  
  
 _That was fast._ "Jesus, he's got a filthy mouth," Dean whispered and Sam made a choking sort of noise, his belly heaving under Dean's hand. Dean lifted himself off the pillow, staring at Sam in the dimness. "Are you _laughing_?"  
  
"Dude, it's _funny_...oh, Jesus..." Sam's voice trailed off into breathy giggles and Dean yanked him closer, deliberately putting his cold feet on Sam's calves. "Hey! Get off, fucker!"  
  
"Oh, shut up." _Thump_! "How in hell am I supposed to go back to sleep now?"  
  
"Well..." Sam twisted just enough, so he could look back at Dean. "We could always...drown them out."  
  
Dean gaped, astonished, and the bruised side of his face twinged. Sam's hand crept over his hip and squeezed. "Sam, you dog, I didn't think you had it in you," he said finally.  
  
Sam grinned.  
  
  
  
When they got up again, it was at a far more respectable ten o'clock. They took turns showering and were just gathering up laptop, money, and jackets when there was a knock. Dean did a quick scan of the room, making sure any questionable items were tucked away and opened the door. The heavy-set woman on the other side opened her mouth to speak and then stopped. _Bruises always look worse the next day,_ Dean thought. She had a stack of towels in her hands and her shirt had an embroidered patch that said 'Delilah'.  
  
She blinked. "Good...morning. Housekeeping?"  
  
"Hi! Hey, uh – we don't actually need, uh...anything."  
  
"Nothing?." The woman peered at the beds, which were both rucked up. Neither one of them liked to sleep in the wet spot. "You don't need new sheets?"  
  
"Nah, it's fine." Dean dug into his jacket pocket and found a crumpled twenty. He held it out to Delilah. "But you know what? Our friends next door in number ten? _They_ wanted the full service for sure. So you could just – go on in."  
  
The woman finally smiled, all dimples and one gold tooth. The twenty disappeared into her...actually fairly impressive cleavage. "Okay, honey, no problem."  
  
"Great! That's great, Delilah. Thank you." Dean grinned back at her and then jumped when Sam poked him in the kidneys with the car keys. "What?" Dean said, snatching the keys and walking outside.  
  
"Don't you think that's a little – juvenile?" Sam said, stepping out behind Dean and watching Delilah push her cart over to the next door.  
  
"So's pretending to be drunk and making all that noise at oh-fucking-dark-hundred." It was chilly outside, overcast and still a little misty and Dean zipped his jacket up, ambling a step or two toward his car. Not really paying much attention to anything at all until he glanced up to survey the parking lot. Then he stopped dead. "Oh, wow. Look at that."  
  
Sam looked. "Jesus – it's even bigger than _your_ phallic symbol."  
  
"I got your phallic symbol," Dean muttered, letting his eyes run over the sleek, black lines of the car parked crookedly next to the Chevy. Distantly, he listened as Delilah knock briskly at number ten. "That's a 1958 Dodge DeSoto," Dean said dreamily. It looked like the windows had been blacked out with spray paint. "What kind of an asshole desecrates a fucking beautiful car like that?"  
  
"The kind of asshole that Delilah's gonna wake up in about ten seconds. Let's go get some breakfast before she does, okay Dean? _Dean_?"  
  
"Huh?" Dean tore his gaze away from the pure lines of the gorgeous car – stared at Sam for a second before it clicked. "Oh, yeah. Housekeeping. Yeah – let's get some breakfast." He opened his door and got in and then rolled his window down – started the engine. Delilah pushed number ten open wide, " _Housekeep – oh my God!_ " ringing across the parking lot. Dean grinned and zoomed away, followed by a volley of completely incomprehensible British swear words.  
  
  
  
For breakfast they found a little bakery with a restaurant attached. They had a view of the lake and the air inside was warm and steamy and thick with the scent of yeast and sugar, almonds and coffee. Sam paged idly through a local paper, stopping now and again to read bits of hometown news. Mostly the strange sort of gossip a small town generated. The column in the paper was called 'Bits and Bobs'.  
  
"Melvin Heimell shot thirteen squirrels that were gnawing the roof of his porch. He says he blames his live-at-home son who dumps bong-water out his window." Sam huffed into his coffee. "He says the squirrels got addicted and were chewing his porch to shreds."  
  
"Jesus. So is the next bit the 'live-at-home son' bein' hauled off?"  
  
"No, just the fine Melvin had to pay for discharging a weapon in city limits."  
  
"Go, Melvin. Squirrels are evil fuckers."  
  
"Don't tell me – you have a squirrel phobia?" Sam popped the last of his bacon and spinach quiche into his mouth and Dean rolled his eyes.  
  
" _No_ , I don't have a _phobia_. But what _are_ squirrels, anyway? They're basically rats with fluffy tails. Should all be – shot or something."  
  
Sam laughed around his mouthful of egg and pig and vegetation and Dean flicked bits of napkin at him, managing to get a scrap into Sam's coffee. "Hey!"  
  
"It's just a napkin, dude."  
  
"That you wiped all over your greasy, slobbery mouth." Sam squinted down into his coffee, poking at it with a little stir-stick.  
  
"You sayin' you have something _against_ my mouth?" Sam started to reply and then his eyes went narrow, darting toward the door and Dean twisted around to look. "For fuck's sake!"  
  
"Oh. Hey. Uh – hi?" _Xander_ standing there, blood-shot eye and bed-head hair and a crease across his cheek.  
  
"Morning, sunshine – sleep well?" Dean purred.  
  
Xander winced. "Um. Listen, guys – sorry about last night. This morning, I mean. Uh – we were kinda…"  
  
"Horny."  
  
" _Drunk_. And horny. Um." A look of dawning horror suddenly crossed his face. "Oh. _Oh_ , hell. You guys are right –"  
  
"Next door, yeah," Sam said. He gave up trying to fish out the napkin fragment and took a cautious sip of his coffee. Dean smirked.  
  
"Shit, guys, I'm…really sorry." Xander rubbed his hand over his face, careful around the eye-patch, and Dean almost felt sorry for him. Almost.  
  
"Nah, don't worry about it. We've spent a lot of time in motels – you kind of get used to it."  
  
"Tell me about it," Xander muttered. He pushed his hand back through his hair and then suddenly _looked_ at Dean and Sam. "You guys were naked."  
  
"We were in _bed_ ," Sam said, blushing, and Dean just leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out a little.  
  
"Yeah, guess you got an eyeful and we got an earful. Even?"  
  
"Um." Xander's eyes snapped back up to Dean's face. "Yeah, sure. Even, I guess." He sighed. "Now I have to get doughnuts and coffee to appease the Pissed Off One."  
  
"Your buddy not a morning person?"  
  
"Not as such, no," Xander said. He walked over to the counter and leaned there, gazing blankly at the doughnuts and pastries and quiches on display. Luckily for Dean, the place also did a killer biscuits and gravy.  
  
"Dude!" Sam hissed, scowling. "He was totally checking you out!"  
  
"Of course he was, Sammy. Most people just can't help themselves."  
  
"Shut up, you freak," Sam muttered and irritably flapped his paper. Dean decided he needed another bear claw and got up – sauntered over to the counter and leaned next to Xander, hip-shot and _grinning_. A calculated grin.  
  
Xander glanced up at him and groaned softly. "Jesus Christ. Not another one." He leaned over the counter, knocking on the warm glass. "Hello? Anybody back there?"  
  
Dean just grinned some more.  
  
  
  
  
  
"So, I think I found our _loup-garou_ ," Sam said, and Dean glanced up, his hands steadily sharpening the last of the knives.  
  
"Yeah? What'cha got?"  
  
"Well, all the attacks center around one particular neighborhood – right here," Sam tilted the area map in Dean's direction, pointing to a green space.  
  
"Is that a park?"  
  
"It is. But right next door is the Edgewood Cemetery. So I'm thinking whoever's cursing people –"  
  
"Started with his neighbors. How convenient. And a graveyard full of supplies right in his back yard." Dean flipped the cover over the whetstone and stood up – stretched hard, knowing his shirt was riding up and his jeans sliding down. When he ended the stretch Sam was just sitting there. Staring. _Gotcha, Sammy._ "So that narrows down the field – what makes you think you know who it is?"  
  
"Huh?" Sam blinked and finally looked _up_ at Dean and Dean grinned. Sam rolled his eyes. "Not exactly a win, Dean – horny twenty-something, here."  
  
"Horny _geek_ , but I still gotcha. So – who's your choice?"  
  
"Actually – Melvin Heimell's son."  
  
"What, bong-boy?" Dean moved over to the wobbly hotel table and leaned over Sam's shoulder, one hand on the chair-back and one on the table, bracketing Sam.  
  
Sam snorted. "This your patented 'librarian move'?"  
  
"Yeah, what'cha think?" Dean murmured, his cheek inches from Sam's skull and his lips right there, just brushing the edge of Sam's ear. Sam's hair smelled like coconut.  
  
"I thh…think you need to brush your teeth."  
  
"God, you're a loser."  
  
"Yeah, the loser you fuck – what's that make you?"  
  
 _Lucky._ Dean didn't say it out loud, just dropped his chin into the messy hair on top of Sam's head.  
  
"Okay, so – I wanted to find out a little more about Melvin's squirrel problem and in _yesterday's_ 'Bits and Bobs', Bob says –"  
  
"Bob?"  
  
"He writes it." Sam rustled the paper and Dean scrubbed his chin back and forth and when Sam spoke next, Dean could hear the smile in his voice. "Anyway, he said the local Lonely Hearts club should call on Melvin's son – his name's Clancy – because Clancy had been moping around, had quit his job, and was keeping himself indoors lately."  
  
"Yup, _loup-garou_. Or, you know – he's stoned off his ass and hiding from the Satanic squirrels," Dean offered, and Sam reached up and flapped his hand, managing to whap Dean in the head. "Hey!"  
  
"No Satanic squirrels. He was also admitted to the ER for lacerated feet and sleepwalking." Dean made a noise of incredulity. "Bob really gets around. He does the 'Pray for these sick people' column, too. I think we need to go find the Heimell residence, stake it out and break the curse on Clancy. In the last two weeks the _loup-garou_ has injured five people and killed…" Sam flipped open a notebook and Dean finally lifted his hands and let them settle lightly on Sam's shoulders; let them slide slowly down while Sam talked. Sam took in a short little breath. "He's killed four cows, seven chickens, one goose, uh, five…dogs…"  
  
"Big dogs or those yappy kind?" Dean murmured, circling Sam's wrists with his fingers – stroking gently along the sensitive underside with his thumbs; letting his lips graze the point of Sam's jaw and the soft skin just under it. Sam was warm under there.  
  
"Um…all the yappy kind."  
  
"Good for Clancy." Dean laced his fingers through Sam's and lifted Sam's hands up – brought them around and back and settled them on his own thighs. He opened his mouth and kissed the side of Sam's throat, just grazing with his teeth – tasting. "It's about…two hours until sunset...."  
  
"Two hours and seventeen minutes," Sam said, his fingers kneading slowly along the backs of Dean's thighs.  
  
"So…think that's enough time?" Dean asked, moving to nuzzle a little into the open collar of Sam's shirt. Skimming his tongue along Sam's collarbone.  
  
"For what?" Sam breathed, his voice gone all low and rough. His head was tipping slowly back, eyes half-shut.  
  
"To do some laundry," Dean said, straightening abruptly – little twist and he was free of Sam's hold. Sam jerked around, his eyes going wide – mouth coming open and his expression so bewildered and pissed off Dean laughed out loud. "Dude, my socks –"  
  
"Oh, you _bastard_ ," Sam snarled, and tackled Dean to the bed. It was a good tackle – Dean approved.  
  
  
  
"Shag ass, Sammy," Dean said, pulling on his jacket and checking for the keys.  
  
"I _already_ shagged your ass," Sam replied, then shook his head when Dean gave him a baffled look. "Shag? You know? Means 'fuck' if you're English?"  
  
"Somebody's been watching _too much_ Masterpiece Theatre."  
  
"They don't say 'shag' on Masterpiece Theatre," Sam muttered and Dean shoved the obligatory duffel of 'just in case' weapons into Sam's chest.  
  
"You are such a fucking _nerd_."  
  
"Yeah, but you still want me." Sam body-checked Dean into the wall and snatched the keys out of his hand. "And I'm driving."  
  
"Whoa, give you some time on top and you go all butch on me," Dean laughed – yelped when Sam goosed him.  
  
"Bite me, bitch." He swung open the door and stepped out, smiling back at Dean and Dean lunged forward and grabbed his arm, yanking him back and keeping him from colliding with…someone.  
  
'Someone' turned out to be Xander with an armful of beer and ice. "Oh, hey guys. Hi," Xander said. "You, uh…going out?"  
  
"Thought we'd go check on our _loup-garou_ ," Dean said, edging around Sam and closing the door. _Grinning_ , which made Xander blush. "Make sure he doesn't graduate to killing people."  
  
"Too many sodding people on the planet, anyway," Spike said, leaning around the doorjamb of number ten. He looked like he'd just gotten up. He _didn't_ look like he'd bothered to dress. Dean smirked when Sam looked away.  
  
"Now, now, let's not bother these…uh…nice young men with your antisocial, probably Communist 'let 'em all die and there's no God to sort 'em out' world view, m'kay? It's early." Xander shifted ice and beer and waved an elbow at them. "Buh-bye."  
  
"That your car?" Spike asked, easing outside. Well, he had jeans on. But they weren't buttoned all the way and Dean couldn't help it if he just had to check out what was probably the _whitest_ white guy he'd ever seen. The hair, Dean noted, _was_ naturally that honey-blond color.  
  
" _Dean_." Sam's voice could have cut diamonds.  
  
"Yup, that's my baby." Dean stepped over to the car and patted the hood affectionately. She needed a wash.  
  
"Nice. 'Bout as nice as Delilah." Spike leaned against the wall, absently digging cigarette pack and Zippo out of a pocket. The jeans dipped dangerously.  
  
Sam made a snorting sort of noise and opened the back door – tossed the duffel in. "We need to get going, Dean."  
  
"Delilah? Oh, you mean the lovely lady from Housekeeping." Dean watched as Xander squeezed past Spike with an eye-roll that was pretty impressive for a guy with only one eye. "Yeah, she's a real peach. Hope she fixed you right up."  
  
" _Oh, God_." Xander appeared in the doorway again, sans groceries. "We _really_ need to get this beer on ice, guys, so –"  
  
"Can't imagine why she thought we needed the full-on treatment," Spike said, pulling smoke into his lungs and flipping the Zippo shut. He lifted the cigarette from his mouth and flicked ash toward the parking lot. "I made it pretty clear she didn't need to come back."  
  
"That's just _great_ ," Sam said, and Dean stretched just a little, going up onto the balls of his feet. Hands loose at his sides. Ready.  
  
"Super!" Dean clapped his hands together, grinning at Spike, who was staring back, slit-eyed, through cigarette smoke. "Now that _everybody_ knows which room is which…I'm sure she won't be bothering you." The front door creaked and slammed and the car started, engine revving under Sam's impatient foot.  
  
"Ought to see to those hinges. Not very subtle, that." Spike drew in smoke and plumed it up and away and Dean grinned.  
  
"Never been much for subtle."  
  
"Sounds familiar." Xander's hand appeared on Spike's shoulder and he tugged. "Spike, the ice is melting."  
  
"Sure, pet." Spike grinned back at Dean, his eyes half-shut and for just one moment, Dean felt a little chill. "See ya."  
  
"Later." Dean walked around to the passenger door and slid inside and Sam backed and turned and drove out of the parking lot with a surprising _lack_ of tire-squealing and engine racing. But he was scowling.  
  
"I _told_ you that was juvenile," Sam muttered.  
  
"Ah, Sammy – lighten up! I got my point across."  
  
"Yeah, so did he. Better make sure you keep an eye on the car tonight."  
  
"Huh? Oh no, no, no. You don't get it, Sam. He wouldn't mess with my car."  
  
"What makes you think that?" Sam asked. He pulled the marked and folded map of Ashtabula out of his jacket and glanced at it before taking a left.  
  
"Because. He's got that –" Dean reached out and patted the dash, "that sweet little ride of his. We're kind of…you know…brothers. The girls are off-limits."  
  
"Oh, God. I forgot about the overwhelming _idiocy_ of the gearhead mind set."  
  
"Dude, don't be insulting. It's pure practicality. The rides are sacrosanct." Dean turned and flashed a smile at Sam, the one that made him give Dean that 'you are such a moron' look. _That_ look, right there. "Everything else is fair game."  
  
"Jesus. I'm actually looking _forward_ to possibly being mauled by a cursed man transformed into a wolf-thing," Sam muttered.  
  
Dean just laughed and turned on the radio.  
  
  
  
  
  
The Heimell household wasn't particularly impressive. It looked like the squirrels had been chewing on more than the porch roof. There was _moss_ growing up there, plus a couple of ten-inch maple seedlings in the composty-looking pile of leaf-drift that had built up in the corner against the house. The lawn was unkempt and the sidewalk going up to the tilting porch was buckled and humped, dead dandelions cluttering the cracks.  
  
As night well and truly came on, the temperature in the car dropped fast and Dean stuck his hands in his armpits, under his coat. "Man, I hate stake-outs."  
  
"Yup, they're pretty boring, all right." Sam turned another page in the book he was reading by Itty Bitty Book Light and Dean felt the urge to smack him. What hunter used such a damn yuppie accoutrement, anyway?  
  
"What hunter uses 'accoutrement'?" Sam said, sliding a sideways look of pure glee at Dean and Dean glared back.  
  
"What?"  
  
"What? Stop muttering so loud."  
  
"Stop listening to my muttering!"  
  
"If only I could." Sam snapped off the light and put the book down in the seat. "Looks like Clancy's going for a walk."  
  
"Jesus, finally." They watched the weedy, flannel-jacketed figure lope off down the sidewalk, wooly-hatted head tucked low. "Looks like he's headed for ground zero."  
  
"Well, the lake's that way," Sam said as they climbed out of the car. He had a Salvation Army blanket tucked up under his arm. "And there's a couple of parks…maybe he's going for someplace lonely and deserted."  
  
"Wanna bet?" Dean said, patting the hilt of the silver-bladed knife he had at his waist.  
  
"No, not really," Sam muttered, and they strode off after Clancy.  
  
They walked about a block, Clancy's stride getting jerkier – clumsier. He turned in at the Edgewood Cemetery sign and Dean heaved an annoyed sigh. Definitely going to meet up with whoever had cursed him and carry out their evil plan to kill more Pomeranians or something. _Fucking idiot evil sorcerers._ Dean muttered under his breath across half the cemetery and almost missed it when Clancy went down on all fours, retching. Sam's hand shot out and stopped him and they both crouched behind a tall, wide marker of pale-colored stone.  
  
"Okay. We have to draw blood, then name him as the...thing," Sam said, and Dean rolled his eyes, brandishing his knife.  
  
"I know that already, Einstein. But thanks for the repeat."  
  
"Just making sure we know the plan," Sam said. He drew a silver-bladed knife and braced himself to move.  
  
After several moments of writhing, growling, groaning and whimpering – ' _It's like some kind of fuckin' porno!_ ' Dean observed gleefully – Clancy rose up. He was bipedal, hairy, hunchbacked and way too fast, and it took about five minutes of bait and switch – plus some yelling and stone throwing – until he charged into the little thicket of Rose of Sharon Dean and Sam had picked for the trap. Once he was inside, thrashing and howling, Dean ducked in under a flailing paw and scratched the tip of his knife across Clancy's hirsute chest just as Sam scratched his shoulder.  
  
Clancy froze.  
  
"Clancy Heimell – you are released from your curse!" Dean shouted, and Clancy growled. Then he whimpered and fell back among the branches.  
  
After a few more minutes of thrashing and moaning – ' _Don't say it, Dean!'_ – Clancy stood up. He clutched a handful of wet leaves self-consciously to his groin.  
  
"Uh..."  
  
"Don't say a word. Rules of the curse. Can't discuss – any of this. Here." Sam handed across the blanket and Dean looked away as Clancy wrapped it around his shoulders. "Now go home and don't do whatever it was you did to piss of whoever you pissed off again. Okay?"  
  
"Uh...yeah," Clancy said. "Jesus, all I did was accidentally weed-whack her azaleas. Bitch." He eyed them both as he shuffled out of the bushes, wincing. "Did you bring any shoes?"  
  
"Jeez, would you go home already?" Dean snapped and Clancy turned and limped off, muttering. "Man, talk about ungrateful."  
  
"At least that's over," Sam said, wiping his knife clean on the side of his sneaker and tucking it away. Dean did the same and they both started ambling out of the cemetery. "Now all we have to do is find a house with mutilated azaleas."  
  
"Great," Dean muttered. What the fuck did _azaleas_ look like? "Just freakin' great."

 

 

"No, _not_ azaleas," Sam said for about the fifteenth time. Dean scowled down at the ratty bush.  
  
"Fine. What the fuck is it, then?"  
  
"Those are mums, Dean." Sam sounded like he had a headache. Dean knew _he_ had one.  
  
"I think I'm fucking allergic to plants," Dean muttered, stomping down the sidewalk. Jesus, what was wrong with people, anyway? Why in hell did they have to put so much _stuff_ in their yards? What was wrong with plain old grass, maybe one of those pink flamingos? "If we haven't found azaleas by the end of the block, man, I'm outta here. I need a drink." At least it was only one side of the street – the other side was the cemetery, nicely creepy in the moonlight.  
  
"We've only got about four more blocks to go," Sam said, squinting down at his map. He flicked the flashlight beam over the next couple of houses, trying to find a number. "What the hell is it with people who don't put their number on their house?"  
  
"What the hell is it with people with _numbers_?" Dean grumbled. The whole place was giving him hives. If you stood between two houses you could practically touch both of them with your spread arms and that was just _wrong_.  
  
"It's so nine one one can find them," Sam replied absently, taking off down the street. A car roared past and then screeched to a stop halfway down the block and Sam broke into a jog. "Hey, does that car look familiar?"  
  
"Huh?" Dean trotted after Sam, frowning. "Oooh, yeah, that car looks _real_ familiar." They both stopped and stared at the DeSoto. It had jumped the curb and was halfway on the sidewalk, engine ticking. Music was playing inside at a remarkable volume. Then the door opened and it got _louder_ and Dean rolled his eyes, exasperated. So much for subtle. It wasn't even nine o'clock – half the street was probably calling the cops at that very moment.  
  
Xander was climbing out of the car, hampered by a bulging backpack. He looked a little sea-sick. When he saw Dean and Sam his mouth came open and then he heaved a silent sigh and stood up, slamming the door shut.  
  
"Hey, wow – imagine seeing you guys!" He spoke way too loudly and Dean cringed. Jesus.  
  
"Yeah, imagine," Dean said.  
  
Xander made a ' _Huh?_ ' face at him. "Oh – wait – hang on." Xander reached up and pulled a pair of bright yellow foam earplugs out of his ears – worked his jaw for a moment, stuffing the plugs into his pocket. "His music kind of hurts my ears."  
  
"Kind of hurts my _soul_ ", Dean said, grimacing, as the singer wailed her way to a jangling silence.  
  
"You don't like Souixsie, you don't _have_ a bloody soul," Spike said, climbing out of the driver's seat and glaring at Dean and Sam over the roof of his car. "What are _you_ buggers doing here?"  
  
"Our _job_ ," Dean snapped. He had the sudden urge to punch something. Never good.  
  
"We're just hunting down the person who made the _loup-garou_ ," Sam said, shooting Dean a warning look. Dean glared back.  
  
"Oh, well, that's all right then – don't want to interfere with your _hunt_." Spike slammed the car door shut and stalked around the hood of the car. "C'mon, Xander – don't want to get in the way of a _hunt_. Might get hurt. Might see something _nasty_ –"  
  
" _Jesus_ , you are _pissing me off_ ," Dean snarled, advancing. Okay, not punch _something_. Punch _Spike_.  
  
"As if I give a fuck," Spike snarled back. He dug cigarettes and lighter out of his coat and lit up, not giving an inch when Dean loomed over him. "Can't abide amateurs," he sneered, glaring up at Dean.  
  
"Speak for yourself, blondie –"  
  
"Whoa! Hey, okay." Xander was suddenly there, insinuating himself in between Dean and Spike, hands upraised in the universal 'really don't want to fight' position. The one Dean usually ignored.  
  
"Dean – we need to get going." Sam was insinuating right along with Xander, pushing Dean back with his shoulder and looking pissed off. At _Dean_ , which was totally unfair.  
  
"So do we, so do we – people to find, things to steal – uh! Borrow, just borrow, ha ha." Xander was shoving Spike away, and Spike was letting him, gimlet stare boring into Dean as the two of them moved away up the sidewalk.  
  
"Just stay the hell out of our way," Dean muttered, and let Sam spin him around by the arm. "Jesus, Sam, knock it off!"  
  
"Stop acting like a fucking dog pissing all over its territory," Sam hissed, striding along on his fucking legs. His _long_ fucking legs taking long, angry strides so Dean had to walk extra-fast to keep up.  
  
"We don't need those guys running around making a fucking racket! They'll tip off the witch!"  
  
"We don't even know it _is_ a witch!" Sam stopped dead, exasperated, and Dean almost plowed into him.  
  
"She made her lawn-care guy into a _loup-garou_ , Sam! I'd say there's something witchy going on!"  
  
"She's – oh _fuck_."  
  
"What – _what_?" Sam was staring furiously at the next house up and Dean followed his stare. Watched Spike and Xander stomp up the sidewalk and knock on the door. "So, they're visiting a friend here or something, what the hell?"  
  
"That house has _azaleas_ , Dean. It's the only house we've seen with azaleas so far. _Mangled_ azaleas." Sam's stare could have melted steel and Dean sighed and took out the EMF meter. It squealed alarmingly, lights going right into the red.  
  
"Oh _man_! This _sucks_." Spike and Xander were going inside now – disappearing into shadow – and then the old woman that had answered the door looked over at Dean and Sam and _grinned_ , her eyes winking the yellow-green of a marauding coyote. No _way_ was she human. "Maybe she'll eat 'em and then we can kill her while she's sleeping it off," Dean said, stuffing the EMF meter away.  
  
Sam smacked the back of his head. "We're not _killing_ her. We're not killing anybody. We just have to find the talisman she's using and destroy it."  
  
"Yeah, right, whatever." Dean strode away from Sam, up the walk and right up to the door, Sam scrambling to catch up. Dean lifted his hand and rapped sharply on the door.  
  
"Dude – what are you doing?"  
  
"I'm _knocking_ , Sam. It's this thing you do –"  
  
"I _know_ that – stop it!" Sam grabbed Dean's upraised fist. "We're supposed to be keeping a low profile about this!" he said in a strangled sort of whisper. There was a thump from inside.  
  
"Too fucking late now, isn't it? She _saw_ us when the boy wonders went in. Time to just –" Dean drew his .45, flicking off the safety. "Just go in kickin' ass and takin' names."  
  
"Oh for God's sake –" Sam started, but then the door splintered out onto the porch, clipping them both and spilling Xander down the stairs. A furious growling was coming from inside, followed by a shout and then a _roar_.  
  
"There's animals in there!" Xander yelled, hauling himself upright and brushing splinters off his chest.  
  
"Maybe she made more than one?" Sam wondered, looking at Dean.  
  
"Bet she did." Dean's hand went out, connecting solidly with Sam's chest as Sam started inside. "Whoa, dude – where do you think you're going?"  
  
"We have to _help_ him, Dean!"  
  
"Who, Spike? I don't think so."  
  
"He'll be fine," Xander said, coming up the stairs. "It really pisses him off when I get thrown through doors."  
  
"Does that happen to you a _lot_?"  
  
Xander grinned at Dean – adjusted the eye patch. "A lot more than I'd like, let me tell you." There was another roar from inside and then a smash of something fragile and probably expensive breaking. "Ah ha. Wait for it..." He held up his finger, head cocked in a listening pose. There was a series of thuds and snarls, followed by a ragged howl and then a bang – a flare of too-bright light. Then there was Spike, staggering out through the hole where the door used to be, cursing and crashing into the door-jamb, blood on his t-shirt and knuckles – on his lip. Xander shoved past Dean and Sam and grabbed him.  
  
"Spike? You okay?"  
  
"Bloody witch used some kind of bloody light spell and there were _animals_ in there!"  
  
"Yeah, kinda noticed."  
  
"What kind of animals?" Sam asked, and Dean wanted to smack him.  
  
"Who cares?"  
  
Sam gave Dean his best 'oh my God, you are so _dumb_ ' look. "Well, you know, _we_ might, since this person is making _loup-garous_ and we need to _stop them_."  
  
Spike was patting Xander down in a way that Dean found uncomfortably familiar and he looked away from Sam's smirk.  
  
" _Loup-garous_ , at least four. Silly bitch. Have to make her undo the spell, _then_ we get the books," Spike muttered. Xander nodded along.  
  
Dean wanted to punch him too, now. "What books? Make her do _what_? What the hell is going on!" There was a sudden, low snarling from the shadows of the hall and Spike hustled Xander down the stairs.  
  
"Make her release 'em. Steal all her shite – s'what we do," Spike yelled back.  
  
Xander twisted in Spike's grip. "Maybe we should all go have a drink? Talk things over?"  
  
"We'll follow you!" Sam grabbed Dean's coat and pulled and Dean let himself be dragged along.  
  
"Dude, what the hell?"  
  
"I wanna know what's going on, Dean, and we can't hurt the animals if they're really people – we have to break the spell."  
  
"Yeah, so – we just – stake the house out and follow 'em home and –"  
  
Sam huffed out an annoyed breath – shoved Dean toward the car. "These guys seem to think _she_ can break the spell. And that sounds a lot easier than trying to follow a bunch of pissed off magical monsters home and get their names."  
  
"Yeah, okay. Fuck." Dean shoved the gun away and dug his keys out – got into the car. Spike's DeSoto roared past, music blaring. Dean stared after it, frowning. "That guy just bugs me, man. Cocky son of a bitch."  
  
"Takes one to know one," Sam muttered, and slammed the car door.  
  
  
  
  
  
The bar was dark and smoky and crowded but Spike seemed to radiate a 'Get away from me or I'll have your guts for garters' field. Well, and he actually _said_ that to some drunken idiot who nearly spilled a beer over him. They had an empty table within five minute, and a free pool table in about seven, and Dean felt his bad mood starting to fade in the face of cold beer and the soothing click of cue balls.  
  
"So – this woman's some kind of witch?" Dean asked, studying the table.  
  
"Some kind of brainless _twat_ , if you ask me," Spike said. He lit a cigarette and watched Dean sink the three.  
  
"Most of the people we deal with who call themselves 'witches' are –" Dean made a sort of swirling gesture and Spike snorted smoke.  
  
"All patchouli and flowing dresses and unshaved legs?"  
  
" _Exactly_." Dean bent over and tapped the cue ball – watched it roll gently into the seven and watched the seven tremble and then drop into the pocket. "Not like they can't cause all _kinds_ of trouble, anyway, considering most of 'em don't know the first thing about what they're doing. This one's a little different, though."  
  
"This one's gotten herself into a nasty little corner with no way out. Any joy, pet?" Spike asked, when Xander wandered up, hands full of beer bottles.  
  
"Nope, sorry. It's Sam Adams all around," Xander said, putting two bottles down on the little ledge that ran around the walls of the pool table area.  
  
"Bugger." Spike eyed the bottles with a curled lip. "Better make my next one a Jack, then."  
  
"Only if you're buying." Xander took a step away and then stopped and shot Spike a squinty look. "That other one's for Dean."  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Spike muttered.  
  
"I'm going to fill Sam in on – uh – stuff. You know? Everything." Xander looked excited and lifted his beer bottle in a little salute to Dean before going to sit with Sam and the laptop at the table in the corner.  
  
"So – he's your geek, huh?" Dean said, stretching past Spike for his beer.  
  
Spike leaned on his cue, cigarette smoldering between long fingers. "Yeah. Knows the secret code, has the bloody collector's plates, you name it."  
  
"There's collector's plates?" Dean asked, leaning next to Spike and taking a drink of his beer.  
  
"For every sodding thing under the sun," Spike sighed.  
  
"Huh." Dean watched Xander talking – Xander's hands waving around. Sam was leaning on one elbow and listening with a faintly incredulous expression, long legs hooked through the rungs of his stool. "Hope he doesn't tell Sam about 'em."  
  
  
  
  
Spike was actually...kind of cool. Dean drained the last of his beer – beer number he-had-no-clue – and watched Spike line up a neat little bank shot. The four ball dropped into the side pocket and the cue ball rolled to a stop right behind the eight ball. _That's the game..._. "Dude, sweet," Dean said. Spike looked up with a lazy grin – tapped in the eight ball and stood up, the cue twirling easily in his hands.  
  
"All in the wrist," Spike said – made a little motion with his hand in front of his crotch and Dean snorted laughter.  
  
"Oh, man –" Dean pushed away from the wall and blinked, using his cue to steady himself. "I'm a little...buzzed."  
  
"Lightweight." Spike had switched to Jack after the first beer and been steadily drinking it ever since. The bottle was nearly gone and he was steady as a rock.  
  
 _Cast fucking iron. Damn._ "What's the word?" Dean thought for a second. " _Wanker_ ," he said finally, remembering, and Spike grinned, lighting up.  
  
Then he glanced over at the table where Xander and Sam were deep in conversation. "Suppose we should break that up, then. Fuck only knows what bloody schemes they're hatching."  
  
"Jesus, yeah. They're too quiet." Dean racked his cue and picked up his beer – walked with Spike toward the table. Sam was hunched over his own beer – probably only his second one – listening intently to Xander. Both of them too focused on what they were saying to notice Dean and Spike.  
  
"I was possessed by the spirit of a hyena once," Xander said, sketching a little growly-face in the wetness on the table-top.  
  
"Yeah? Really? What'd you do?"  
  
"Tried to jump my best friend's bones and almost ate the high school principal for lunch."  
  
"Huh. I was kinda...possessed by this crazy psychiatrist once. Or – infected? Something."  
  
"Yeah? What'd _you_ do?"  
  
"I tried to kill Dean with a .45."  
  
"Bad aim, huh?" Xander asked, and Sam slowly shook his head.  
  
"No, um...Dean figured something was up and unloaded the gun before he gave it to me."  
  
" _Gave_ it to you?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"Huh."  
  
"Yeah. I _did_ shoot him with a load of rock salt, though." They both stared down at the table-top, looking a little too gloomy for Dean's taste.  
  
"Well, isn't that just a lovely story," Spike drawled, startling them both. "But it's late, and I'm horny. Time to fly, pet."  
  
"Is it late?" Xander asked, looking around, and Sam squinted at his wrist.  
  
"A little past one."  
  
Xander nodded, patting at his pockets and getting his jacket off an empty stool. Dean leaned on the table, watching Sam power down the laptop and get his own coat. "So, Sammy – learn anything new?"  
  
"Dude, you won't _believe_ the stuff I learned."  
  
"Yeah?" Dean reached over and grabbed Sam's beer – drained the last couple of inches. "Anything about collector's plates?"  
  
Sam give him a funny look. "What?"  
  
"Nothin', nothin'." Dean stood up straight, slapping his hands on his thighs. "Wow, yeah – late! Should be going, lotta – stuff – to do tomorrow."  
  
"Like getting that witch to break the curse," Xander sighed, and Spike made a disgusted noise.  
  
"Miserable old hag. Should just take her out –"  
  
"We don't kill _people_ ," Sam said, his best 'horribly offended' voice, and Spike's eyebrow went up.  
  
"Why not? S'a big world – could do with a few less. Especially when they're mean-minded old bints who fuck with people for the joy of it."  
  
Sam jerked his jacket up onto his shoulders and then slung the laptop bag up as well, frowning a little. He was kind of looming over Spike. "It's not part of the job."  
  
"Maybe not _your_ job," Spike said, lift of his chin and lip that looked too much like a snarl and Dean stepped between them, little snarl of his own on his mouth.  
  
" _Really_ not our job," Dean said, and Xander put an arm around Spike's shoulders and tugged at him.  
  
"You were saying something about horny, right? 'Cause I'm really not in the mood for the 'fighting' part of 'fighting and fucking', okay?"  
  
"Killjoy," Spike muttered, but he let Xander pull him away – let Xander plant a sloppy kiss on the corner of his mouth.  
  
"Fucking queers," somebody said, and Spike pushed Xander gently away, turned on his heel and punched the guy square in the face. The guy actually flew backward a couple feet, crushed a table under his falling weight and then lay there, eyes closed and nose bleeding in a spectacular spatter of scarlet all over his face and shirt.  
  
"Whoa, dude. Good shot." Dean grinned in admiration and Spike grinned back – looked up and around at the small crowd that had gathered.  
  
"Right. That's one down. Me and my mates here, we're 'fucking queer', as Sleeping Beauty there so eloquently put it. Anybody else give a shite?" The crowd shuffled and murmured and faded away and Spike snagged a shot off a passing waitresses' tray and downed it. "I bloody well thought not. Tossers. C'mon, pet." He grabbed Xander around the waist and they made their way toward the door. Sam shot Dean a look from under his bangs and Dean shrugged, following in Spike and Xander's wake.  
  
"I guess we're outed in Ashtabula, then," Sam said and Dean yanked him close by his collar and kissed him.  
  
"Guess so."  
  
  
  
  
  
Dean wouldn't call what he had a _hangover_ , exactly. But he didn't really feel bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, either. It hadn't helped that 'drown out Spike and Xander' had gone two rounds after they'd got back to the hotel and Dean was pretty sure the other two had gone on to round three and then four sometime near dawn.  
  
Sam, of course, in that irritating way he had, was up and at 'em far too early, going out for coffee and breakfast and then bouncing around the hotel room, waiting for Dean to get awake enough to tell him about whatever it was Xander had told him about the night before. Which turned out to be....  
  
"That's just _weird_ , man. Are you sure he's not just, you know, yankin' your chain?"  
  
"Dude, I looked it up. This Sunnydale place just _vanished_ a few years ago. Look –" Sam spun the laptop around to show Dean an aerial photo of a huge-ass crater. Scrolling down the page showed pictures of the tumbled, rock-and-dirt drowned wreckage of houses and buildings and roads. Breathless 20-point font in bright yellow spelled out the story and the theories and Dean rubbed his eyes, looking away.  
  
"Jesus, okay. Slayers, huh? New one on me."  
  
"Me too, but...man, we've seen weirder." Sam bookmarked the page and then closed the browser – took a long gulp of his coffee. "If they know how to de-curse the people without attacking them, that's really gonna be cool."  
  
"Hell of a lot easier, that's for sure." Dean drained his own coffee and shoved a doughnut into his mouth, wiping powdered sugar off his lip with a thumb. "So we just gonna sit around today, wait on them to do the de-cursing thing?"  
  
"Well, Xander said they had to wait until after sunset so the _loup-garous_ would all be, uh, in their animal forms. He said she has to do the un-cursing then or it won't work or something."  
  
"Okay." Dean yawned – dusted his hands together, knocking more powdered sugar onto the floor. "Maybe I'll just lay back down –"  
  
"You're gonna go back to sleep?"  
  
"Well, yeah." Dean gave Sam the once-over, leering just a little. "You got something else in mind?"  
  
Sam shifted – winced ever so slightly – and held up the remote. " _Aliens_ marathon?"  
  
"You're on."  
  
  
  
  
Sunset was drowned in a low sheet of goose-grey clouds, and when Dean and Sam stepped out of their room, their breath fogged, pale in the orange glow of the parking lot lights. Spike was shoving things around in the trunk of the DeSoto and Xander was watching him from the sidewalk, rubbing his hands together.  
  
"Gentlemen," he said, mock-serious, and Spike cursed, something clanging against something else in the depths of the trunk.  
  
"Hey," Sam said. He hitched his duffle a little higher and headed for the car, and Dean wandered after him, digging for his keys.  
  
"Listen." Spike was standing there, hands in his pockets and a _look_ on his face and Dean sighed, leaning on the roof of his car.  
  
"We're not amateurs. We've done this before. We know what we're doing," Dean said, and Spike rolled his eyes.  
  
"Yeah, sure, if you say so. Just – stay the hell out of my way, right? I'm not in the habit of watchin' out for civilians."  
  
"Neither are we," Dean said.  
  
Sam slung his duffle into the back seat. "Guys, come on. We worked this out last night. Nobody's going to get in anybody's way, the _loup-garous_ are all going to be un-cursed and then we can – we can – "  
  
"Then we can all have a drink and go our separate ways, right? Sounds awesome!" Xander clapped his hands together and walked quickly to Spike's car, pulling open the door and leaning there for a moment. "C'mon, Spike, things that go 'bump' need their asses kicked, let's get kicking, huh?"  
  
"Right with you, pet," Spike said, and Xander slid into the seat and shut the door. Sam looked back and forth between Dean and Spike for a moment and then he did the same, slamming the car door with a little too much force and Dean winced.  
  
"Just keep the hell out of my way. Anything touches my boy, I'll make you the sorriest bloody arsehole in the history of arseholes."  
  
"You wish. Anything gets through, gets Sammy – " Dean cocked a finger and pointed it right at Spike. "You're toast."  
  
They stared at each for a moment, and both jumped when Xander blasted the DeSoto's horn. "Just so we're clear," Dean added, and Spike nodded once, sharply.  
  
"We're clear."  
  
"Good."  
  
"Good."  
  
"Fine."  
  
" _Fine_."  
  
"Let's _go_!" Sam yelled, and Dean shot Spike one final glare before getting into his car and starting her up. "So – you guys get a nice, clear measurement? Who's got the biggest dick?" Sam asked, and Dean tried to dead-arm him while backing his car up. Spike revved the DeSoto's engine and tore past them, burning rubber, and Dean put the Impala into gear and tromped heavily on the gas.  
  
"I'm the biggest dick," he muttered, and Sam cackled, rubbing his shoulder.  
  
"Got that right."  
  
" _Have_ the biggest – shut up, Sam!"  
  
  
  
  
 _Who'd have thought a skinny old woman with a cane could be so friggin' tough?_ Dean thought, and ducked down behind the overturned couch. The reanimated cat-thing – or possibly purse-dog thing – hit the couch cushions with a brittle crunch. A puff of rank dust drifted up from it and Dean cursed – sneezed – and trained his home-made flame thrower on it. It went up with a satisfying _foomph_ and the witch wailed.  
  
"You bad, bad, horrible boy, I'll hurt you, I'll –"  
  
"Shut up, you freakin' _witch_ ," Dean yelled, and ducked another mummified missile. Sam was somewhere in the kitchen, dealing with a _loup garou_ that seemed to be trapped in a rolling rack of thrift-store clothing. The whole _house_ looked like a thrift store, and Dean tripped over a half-crushed box of empty Big Gulp cups as he waded toward the witch.  
  
She was barricaded in her bathroom, peeking out through the door to hurl a spell or a reanimated pet. The _loup garous_ – four, at least – were being, apparently, beaten into submission in the master bedroom by Spike and Xander.  
  
That, at least, was what Dean _assumed_ was going on in there – the noise-level was indescribable and frankly a little terrifying. There was a sharp _crack_ from the kitchen, and then a thud, and Sam emerged, hair in a sweaty tangle over his forehead and a nice, big bruise coming up on his jaw.  
  
"Shit, you okay? You got it?"  
  
"I'm good – I got it." He bent down and dragged the limp, furry form part way into the kitchen and then stopped, bent over and panting. "S'fuckin' heavy."  
  
"Ribs still hurt from the other day, huh?" Dean said, grinning, and Sam shot him a pissy look. A look that morphed into one of shock.  
  
"Dean! Fire!"  
  
"Huh?" Dean spun on his heel and saw that the remains of the cat-thing had ignited a stack of crumbling paperbacks. "Fuck, God damnit!" He waded back at top speed, picking up a ratty afghan and doing his best to smother the flames.  
  
"What the hell, guys?" Xander's voice, and then Xander, looking ruffled and out of breath. Spike stalked into the living room behind him, impossibly cool – smoking, for fuck's sake, and Dean rolled his eyes. Stomped on the last, smoldering book and turned around.  
  
"I think she's out of dead house pets to attack us with. What say we get that counter-spell going and get the hell out of here?"  
  
"I say hell yeah," Xander said. He stepped aside for Spike, who strode past, cursing when he slipped on a tongue of magazines spilling out of a ruptured Hefty bag. He leaned back, kicked the bathroom door open in one, hard motion and dragged the witch out by her arm.  
  
"My kitties, my kitties, my little dogs, you horrible boys, I'll kill you, I'll kill you –!"  
  
"Shut it, you," Spike snapped. He shoved her into the wall, and Dean all but felt Sam's flinch. Spike fished a ragged paper out of his pocket and shoved it in her face. "You'll do this spell, right now, or you'll be the one ends up in the pet cemetery."  
  
The woman squinted up at Spike, her dirty-white hair cobwebbed across her forehead, her glasses askew. "I won't unmake my pets, I won't! You need a lesson taught you, just like Madeline down the street, letting her dog poo in my yard; just like Chester at the Hillcrest; just like –"  
  
"Christ, shut _up_!" Spike shook her and this time it was Xander that flinched.  
  
"Spike, c'mon, she's just an old woman –"  
  
"Who's turning people into animals and siccin' them on her neighbors! _And_ diggin' up graves to get her bits and bobs - you want I should say 'pretty please'?"  
  
"Eww, jeez. No, I mean...yes? I mean – she's still an old woman."  
  
"She's still _human_ ," Sam said, looming up beside Dean. Spike ignored him.  
  
"Listen, you miserable old _hag_ , you will _do this_ –"  
  
"Begone, foul, unclean thing!" the witch screamed. She shook something out of her sleeve and drove it straight into Spike's chest.  
  
" _Spike_!"  
  
Spike _roared_ , and his face shivered and then he was one of those _things_ , he was a vampire and the witch was screaming and Spike reached up and twisted, a short, sharp jerk of the old woman's head. There was a wet crackle as her skull parted company with her spine and her body sagged, lifeless, to the floor.  
  
"Spike, Jesus Christ –" Xander all but threw himself at Spike and Spike stepped back – let Xander paw wildly at his chest. The hilt of what looked like a barbeque fork was sticking out of the dark blue fabric of his button down and Xander put a shaking hand on it. "Are you – does it – should I –?"  
  
"I'm good, it does, and no," Spike said. He reached up and wrenched the fork out of his chest and tossed it aside and Xander put his hand on the bloody splotch on the shirt.  
  
"I really – really hate when...."  
  
Spike sighed – reached out and put his hand gently on the side of Xander's face, smiling at him. "I know." The alien contours of his face shivered – settled – and then he was just _Spike_ again, and Dean barked out a short, sharp laugh.  
  
"Are you kidding me with this shit? Seriously? You're a – a freakin' _vampire_?" Dean waved his hands in the air, the flamethrower describing a fat arc. It was out. He pointed at Xander. "And _you_ –"  
  
"All human," Spike snapped.  
  
"You're _fucking_ a vampire?"  
  
"Twice nightly and thrice on Sundays and what's it bloody matter to _you, hunter_?" Spike sneered, and Dean dug out his Zippo and flicked it open, relighting the flame thrower.  
  
"It's just another notch on my belt, _Spike_. And seriously, _Spike_? What the fuck kind of name is _that_? Lestat not 'cool' enough for you?" He stomped forward over crumpled newspapers and ad circulars toward Spike and Xander, pulled up short by Sam's hand on his arm.  
  
"Dean – wait. Just...wait."  
  
"Sam! Vampire!"  
  
"Yeah, I get it, Dean. But – it's not like he – I mean, he's been helping us."  
  
"He killed the old woman, Sam!"  
  
"Oh, that's rich – like you bloody give a fuck. She was a loony old coot and you know it – you wanted to off her the minute you walked in here!" Spike patted Xander's shoulder absently and stepped easily in front of him, digging into a pocket and pulling out a slightly squished pack of Marlboro Reds. He slid one out and held it up, grinning – face morphing. "Got a light?"  
  
"Talk about biggest dicks," Xander muttered. "Now's really not the time, Spike, c'mon –"  
  
"Light you up like a frickin' bonfire, you freak," Dean said, and Sam jerked him roughly around in a half circle.  
  
"Dean – we're surrounded by _loup garous_ , in a witch's house with the witch lying dead on the floor. Don't we have more important things to worry about right this second?"  
  
Dean stared up at Sam in horrified surprise. "We don't work with monsters, Sam!"  
  
"He's not a monster!" Xander said. He glanced over at Spike, who had lit up and was puffing like a dragon, golden eyes slitted through the smoke. "Okay, yeah, he _is_ a monster, but he's a friendly monster. A – a _good_ monster! Think – Cookie Monster, only with a lot of hair products and a three-pack-a-day habit."  
  
"Effing Christ!"  
  
"A _muppet_?" Dean waved the now-lit flamethrower and Sam ducked, scowling. "You want me to think he's some kind of – of – furry little puppet who eats Chips Ahoy?" Sam snorted.  
  
"It kinda runs in the family," Xander said, and shot Spike a sly look.  
  
Spike glared at all three of them. "Listen, all of you lack-brains. The _real_ – I mean the _other_ monsters are gonna be wakin' up pretty damn soon, and since Ding-Dong the Witch is dead, they're gonna be wanting to take a nibble or two out of _us_."  
  
"Yeah, well, you _killed_ her, so she can't exactly do the counter-spell, can she?" Dean said. He twitched irritably from Sam's hand and then turned the knob on the flamethrower, dousing the flame.  
  
"No, well – I mean, yeah, she's dead, but we can still do the spell. We just have to get them all together –" Xander had the paper in his hand, looking it over and patting at his pockets and Spike took a last, long drag from his cigarette and ground it out underfoot, sending up a faint odor of singed carpet.  
  
"Let's get this bloody well over, then." He stomped across to the inert, furry form that Sam had dragged from the kitchen and hoisted it easily over his shoulder – stomped away toward the master bedroom. Xander pulled what looked like a chicken foot out of an inner pocket with a little cry of triumph and followed him.  
  
Dean slumped. "What the hell, Sam? I thought they were the good guys? Or – some kind of good guy."  
  
"They still are." Sam was looking longingly after the other two, curiosity warring with in ingrained habit of sticking by Dean. "They're just.... I mean, they're still helping the _loup garous_ , and they didn't attack us or anything so, um...."  
  
"Jesus. Go, Sam, just go already." Dean flapped his hand. "Get your geek on. I'll just...." He looked around the cluttered wreck of the living room and brightened. "I'll just stage a tragic home accident. With fire."  
  
"Yeah, cool, okay," Sam said, stumbling off through the drifts of junk. Dean shook his head and then got to work. A good accident took time.  
  
  
  
They went back to the same bar, after, because the beer had been cheap and the cues mostly straight. Sam and Xander immediately went into a nerd huddle over their drinks and Dean sighed and racked up the balls. "Okay, so – tell me what the fuck a – " He glanced around and lowered his voice. "What a _vampire_ is doing running around like some kinda caped crusader."  
  
"Capes are for shite – they get caught in doors, mostly," Spike said. He bolted a shot of Jack and chalked his cue, ignoring Dean's look of disbelief.  
  
"Look – it's really rather simple. Boy meets vamp, boy hates vamp, boy and vamp have brain-melting hate sex in every conceivable place and position, boy and vamp ride off into the sunset to kill oogie-boogies and shag." Spike bent over and lined up his shot – sent the cue ball hurtling down the felt. The balls broke with a sharp little crack, and a stripe fell into a pocket with a _thump_.  
  
"Yeah, okay, but...vamps are usually, you know, evil," Dean said. He swallowed his own shot, grimacing a little, but liking the mellow burn. Over at the table, Sam was listening to Xander with a look of frank incredulity on his face.  
  
"I _am_ evil. I just – keep it in check. Don't kill the snack packs, don't kick puppies, don't get chanty with the wrong crowd, don't start any apocalypses."  
  
"Apocolypses?"  
  
"It's been done," Spike said. He missed his shot and straightened, looking for a waitress. Dean eyed the table.  
  
"So...are you _sure_...? 'Cause if you try to get your fangs into Sam, I'm gonna have to cut your fuckin' head off. And then set you on fire."  
  
"And if you so much as look sideways at Xander, I'll rip your arms off and stuff 'em up your arse. Deal?"  
  
Dean lined up his shot – sent the green six spinning down the table and into the corner pocket with a satisfying _thunk_.  
  
"Deal."


End file.
